


Safe at Harbor

by Coragyps



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaking, Depressed Dean, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coragyps/pseuds/Coragyps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first Sam tries not to worry about it. Dean has been quiet off and on, since he took the Mark – since Gadreel, really – and now that it’s finally cured, he figures Big Brother just needs a little time.</p><p>But they're on a houseboat in the middle of nowhere, and Dean has stopped talking entirely. And Sam isn't heading back to shore until he fixes everything.</p><p>... If only he could remember how.</p><p>[With fabulous art by the lovely Femmechester!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe at Harbor

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for the[2015 Wincest Big Bang.](http://wincestbigbang.livejournal.com/)**

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


   
  **__[Art](http://femmechester.livejournal.com/1427.html) by [Femmechester](http://femmechester.tumblr.com/)__ **

 

 

  
There was a crack of lightning; the magic that had been building suddenly dissipated, and Dean fell to the ground.  
   
“Dean!” Sam dropped the bowl of ingredients, heedless of the bones and ash scattered across the floor, and rushed to his brother’s side. “Dean, did it work? Are you alright?”

Dean, hunched over his arm, didn’t reply. He hadn’t made a sound while the spell was cast, either – Sam would have remembered, considering how little he had heard his brother's voice lately. But no, Sam’s Big Brother had a pain tolerance that was off the charts, so he’d just gritted his teeth as the Mark turned red and began to burn. And Sam had kept frantically chanting, afraid to stop even for a second.

Now Sam dropped to his knees to crouch beside him. “Let me see, Dean. God damn it, just let me see.” Dean was still gripping his forearm and Sam knocked his hand away, too frantic to be gentle.

The Mark was gone. In its place was an angry, vivid blister, about six inches around, black at the edges and filling up with blood.

There was no sign of the original shape. "I think it worked," said Sam, hardly daring to believe it.

Dean grunted, trying minutely to pull his arm out of Sam's grip, but Sam kept his hold and didn’t let him. He was aware that he was holding on too hard, leaving marks, but he couldn't make himself let go.  
     
“Does it hurt?” he demanded stupidly. Of course it hurt - it looked horrendously painful, a scorched burn the size of a half dollar coin, the skin around it already swollen and red.

He looked into his brother’s face. Dean stared back at him dully, eyes heavy with pain and exhaustion. He looked … _defeated_ , Sam thought, weary and worn down to dust. He obviously wasn't up to answering any questions at the moment. 

He patted Dean's shoulder, careful not to touch his arm at all. “How about you go get cleaned up, and then you can rest, okay?” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You can sleep for four days if you want to.”

He knew there was a smile tugging at his face, offering his brothers words back to him, but Dean didn't respond to the reference.

Sam bit his lip.

  
***

  
In the end, there was no way to destroy the Mark, at least not without risking another apocalypse. Instead, Sam found a spell in the Book of the Dead that transferred a tiny piece of it - an infinitesimal fragment - to every living soul.

Sure, he didn't feel _great_ about theoretically making the world a slightly worse place, but spreading it out had to be better than having all the evil being contained within Dean, right? To Sam at least, it was a no-brainer. And he didn’t feel any worse for it personally. (Of course, what was one more drop of evil, at this point?).  

Maybe he just didn’t care about the rest of the world any more. Sam was done. All he wanted was his brother back, whole and hale and hearty again. For once everybody was going to have to do their share, instead of leaving the entire burden to the Winchesters as usual.

To cast the spell, Rowena had given them a list of screwy ingredients and a commandment – _"the spell cannot be cast on the earth.”_ At first Sam had panicked, but then the solution slapped him in the face: a boat.

Which brought them to the _Harborside_.

Dean had “requisitioned” her a few years back, when Bobby had caught wind of a case in Havre de Grace, Maryland. She was a cheerful little houseboat with a green striped awning that Dean would have made fun of, if he was still talking. They still had the duplicate key tucked away. 

With Garth’s boat _Mr Fizzles_ decommissioned since Crowley got to it, the _Harborside_ was their next best bet. After Cas and - surprisingly enough - Crowley himself had come up with the ingredients they needed, Sam drove for two days from Kansas to Maryland, with Dean surly and silent in the front seat.

(Now Sam tried to think back, straining his memory ... Dean had already been quiet, but had he said anything, on that last drive? Nothing, as far as he could remember; only leaned against the window and pretended to be asleep the entire time. The pulsing vein under his jaw had given him away.)

They’d found the boat right where it was supposed to be, already fully stocked and ready to set out. According to Sam’s research the owners spent most of the year in Rio, returning only infrequently to the US to tour the East Coast. They paid the Marina to keep her ready all year, and fortunately both times the Winchesters had required her services, it had gone unnoticed.

Mentally Sam promised that she would once again be returned unharmed.

He had motored out down the mouth of the broad, wide Susquehanna, out into the Chesapeake, looking for a quiet place where nobody would bother them. As soon as they found a sheltered inlet - he wouldn't want to risk a boat like this out in the open water - he’d dropped anchor as Dean paced restlessly, and began to ready the spell.

 

Now, gazing out at the flat water - still as glass, grey as a mirror - Sam found it hard to believe they were barely two hours from Washington, DC. The coastline was surprisingly lush and green, and gulls and osprey wheeled overhead.

He took Dean's arm over his shoulder, waiting for him to get his legs under him.

"Easy does it, dude," he said. "Take your time."

It took a while, but finally Dean got his knees to lock and managed to stand, then walk slowly with Sam's help. He didn’t object to being guided down the little staircase to the lower deck. He didn't pull away when Sam took on more of his weight, their shoulders jammed together. Sam steered them into the little bathroom at the bow of the boat.

His favorite thing about the _Harborside_ was the secret spaces tucked into every square inch of space. There were little cabinets and shelves in every corner. It reminded him of one of Dean's signature phrases, ' _stow your crap._ ' This was what Sam pictured: tiny, ingenious places for every emotion, each well secured against the rocking of the ship.

"Alright, man, take a load off." With some effort he got Dean seated on the toilet. There was barely room for Sam to stand between him and the sink.

Sam washed the wound with cool water, his eyes fixed on his brother’s downcast face. He could already feel the difference, without the Mark; for the past year Dean had radiated barely suppressed rage. Now, all that agitation had rushed out of him, like a deflated balloon.

"Is this hurting you?" he asked. Dean didn't look up. "Dean. Hey, you hearing me?”

His fingers twitched to tug on his brother’s shirt, remembering immediately he was too old for the gesture. But he wanted his brother’s acknowledgement, and Dean wasn't meeting his eyes. It always drove Sam crazy when Dean ignored him.

"C'mon, Dean, I need to know."

Dean shot an impatient glance at the vicinity of Sam's collarbone, nudging him with an elbow. Sam could hear his voice in his head; _I'm fine, Sammy, jeez, hurry it up_. When Sam didn't get moving, he jabbed him again, harder this time.

"Alright, alright already." Still, Sam was careful as he dressed Dean’s arm with lidocaine and gauze, trying to wrap the burn loosely but still keep it protected. He pressed Dean into taking Extra Strength Tylenol, wishing they had something stronger.

Dean didn’t protest, swallowing the pills and following Sam into the little bedroom tucked into the hull.

"End of the line," said Sam, guiding his brother to sit on the thin mattress of the lower bunk. "You going to be able to sleep?"

He'd been noticing how much more he talked since Dean’s voice had dried up.

It was still early, but Dean crawled only too willingly on top of the covers, refusing to undress or get under the sheets. Sam made sure he was settled before climbing into the top bunk himself. It was too short for him - most beds were - so he laid diagonally across it with his feet hanging out over the end. He didn't mind.

He sent a quick prayer to Cas, telling him that the spell seemed to have worked. But he didn’t ask Cas to come to them, and he didn’t offer any time they would be back.

He felt safe on the boat. It had sheltered them once before, although Dean hadn't even pulled it out of the marina last time. And nobody could sneak up on them - not without a long swim, anyway. Nobody could see them tucked down in this little cabin, with every round window shuttered. The boat swayed gently, but everything was muffled and quiet below deck.

 _It’s really over_ , thought Sam in wonder. It hadn’t been over for them in – well, ever, really. But now the Mark was erased, Cain was dead, Gadreel was gone, Metatron was locked in heaven, Crowley was more or less de-fanged. All Sam needed to do was coax Dean through his recovery and everything would go back to normal. The two of them against the world, the way it should always be.

He knew he’d tried to escape it in the past, but now he finally understood: he'd never be happy without his brother at his side. Nothing worked right unless the two of them were together.

The wind died down as the sun set, and with one ear on Dean, Sam let himself drift off to sleep.

  
***

  
The case had been one of a hundred just like it: Bobby had caught wind of an unusual number of murder-suicides at Aberdeen Proving Grounds, and they’d gone to Havre de Grace expecting a ghost.

It was a few months after the fire, and Sam was still raw, missing Jess, missing California, hating their father and hunting and sometimes even Dean.

It had turned out to be actually the work of a coven of witches, disguising their murders on PTSD among the soldiers. They had a nasty hex that made the victim kill their true love (along with anybody else who got in their way), and then invariably themselves when they realized what they had done. They'd been using it to kill off senior officers, hoping for promotions.  

Sam had been poking through a store room in one of the barracks, looking for a spell book or an altar. Maybe he'd been fuming a little, annoyed that Dean was still taking point on their hunts, casually ordering Sam around.

He'd heard someone moving behind him, and thinking was Dean, had opened his mouth to protest being checked up on, turning around -

Just in time to catch a face full of orange powder.  
   
That was the last thing he remembered for a while.

 

 

_When Sam woke up, he was bound to a chair and the world was gently swaying._

__“Heya, little bro." The_ familiar voice reassured him before he could start to panic. "How you feeling? … Murderous?”_

_Sam blinked. His throat was dry, voice muzzy. “What happened?”_

_“Think you got whammied, Sammy.”_

The hex. _Sam racked his memory, trying to remember exactly what had happened, but everything was blank._

_"Did I - did I go crazy?" he asked, dreading the answer. That's what the servicemen had done, one after another - flown into a rage, one that ended with them beating their wives to death._

_Dean patted his shoulder. "Nah, don't worry. I got to you before you had the chance to hulk out."_

_Sam exhaled. A memory rose slowly to the surface like a bubble rising to the surface; Dean, pinning him to the ground, choking him out slowly, whispering that it would be okay, that they’d be fine, that he was there._

_He swallowed._

_“Are we on a boat?” he asked, thickly. He tested his bonds; snug around his wrists, secured well to the back of the chair. His ankles were wound around with rope. Dean knew how to tie someone up properly when he needed to._

_“Yeah, found this little beauty in the harbor. Things were getting a little hot on base, I decided to commandeer it for the greater good. Whoever owns it obviously ain't going to miss it. At least it should keep the MP's off our backs for a while.”_

_Sam decided not to comment on Dean's latest progression in the world of petty theft. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Got careless, let them get the drop on me.” It was hard, getting back into the swing of hunting, relearning skills he thought he'd be able to forget._

_Dean shrugged his apology away, the way he always did. “Did you get a good look at anyone?”_

_“Big guy,” said Sam, licking his lips. “That's all I remember.”_

_Dean nodded. “Bobby's on it. He'll send us a counter-spell or whatever. We’ll get you un-jinxed and then we’ll wipe them out.”_

_Sam knew the hex wasn’t spent – he could still feel something that wasn’t him, tugging at the back of his mind. It would wax and wane until it got what it wanted, unless they found the counter-spell first._

_He didn’t ask to be untied, and Dean didn’t offer._

_Instead, Dean guided a mason jar full of tepid water to his lips. "Gotta keep hydrated," he said. Sam accepted it, his long hair falling in his face as he drank. Dean brushed it back out of the way like it was no big deal._

_“You need to eat,” he murmured. “How about a sandwich?”_

_Sam shook his head no._

_Dean sighed. His calloused fingers skated over Sam’s cheek. “Please?”_

_Sam closed his eyes. The ropes felt strangely good, restraining him yes but more importantly keeping him (and everyone else) safe. And he was hungry. He needed to keep his strength up. Finally he nodded._

_Dean broke off pieces of a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich, feeding it to Sam with his fingers._

_"Don't worry," he said. “Nobody whammies a Winchester and gets away with it.”_

 

***

  
The narrow bunkbeds of the _Harborside_ , although uncomfortable, were something of a relief to Sam. As much as Dean apparently enjoyed having his own room in the bunker, Sam didn't like being so far away. He supposed it was only to be expected after a lifetime of twin beds in sketchy motel rooms.

He was used to sleeping light, and was by now so tuned in to his brother’s every move that he was listening even in his sleep - he was probably cued into Dean’s very heartbeat by now.

So Sam awoke instantly some hours later at the sound of Dean getting up out of bed.

“Dean?” he whispered.

No answer. Sam swung himself down out of top bunk and followed his brother down the hallway, prepared for anything - demon black eyes, or another round with the axe, or maybe the back-from-the-dead hug he had been hoping for.

He found Dean kneeling in front of the toilet, throwing up. Sam flinched at the gasping, choking sounds. Dean didn’t seem to have much more to bring up (he hadn’t been eating much lately), but he was still heaving violently.

“Dean?”

Dean grunted in acknowledgement but continued, the muscles of his back convulsing and bunching under his t-shirt.

Sam knelt next to him, reaching automatically to rest a hand on the back of his neck. It was their father's gesture, whenever one of them was sick or hurt. He didn’t really expect it to help, but both of them hated throwing up.

Dean flinched as soon as his hand made contact.

“Hey,” said Sam, pulling his hand back as if stung. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s just me.”

Dean was panting, his body wanting to expel more even though there was nothing left.  
   
Sam stretched up to reach a glass from above the sink (he was tall enough, and the bathroom small enough, to reach without getting up) and filled it, offering it wordlessly.

Dean accepted the glass, rinsing his mouth out and spitting into the toilet.

“Think you're done?”

Dean raised one shoulder, not lifting his head. Then he shuddered and spat again.

Sam wanted to offer some kind of reassurance, but the truth was, he didn't really know how to comfort his brother. He never had, and whenever he tried, it usually came out as yelling. Dean was incredibly stubborn and he always thought it was his job to take care of Sam. Never the other way around.

But Sam couldn't look at those hunched, tight shoulders without trying to do _something_.

He wet one of the hand towels with cool water and wrung it out. "Let's see if this helps," he said, giving Dean warning this time before laying the wet cloth carefully over his sweaty neck. Dean grunted, a sound that didn't sound entirely happy - but Sam persisted, smoothing his palm down over the tight muscles of his brother’s shoulders.

This time Dean allowed it.

"Give it a second," said Sam, keeping his voice low. There were times when he hated his height, and this was one of them - he felt huge and ungainly, looming over Dean, boxing him in. _Christ, did he always have to be such a gangly fucker?_

Dean pushed back from the toilet, wiping his mouth.

“Wanna come back to bed?” asked Sam hopefully.

Dean shrugged and hauled himself up. Sam reached for him automatically, catching him under the arm to steady him as he leaned over the sink to wash his face, then brush his teeth. Dean didn’t even bother to push him off this time.

Sam snagged a bucket in case he wasn’t done and steered his brother back towards the bedroom.  
   
“Feeling any better?” He asked. Dean nodded shortly, but he didn’t look a whole lot better in Sam’s opinion.

“Let me take a look at the – your arm,” said Sam. Both of them avoided referring directly to the Mark, and he didn’t like to say it now.

Dean sat obediently on the bed, letting Sam unwind the layers of wrapping to take a look.

The blister had turned from vivid red to black; Sam hissed sympathetically. The skin around it was streaked and puffy, but it didn’t look like an infection. At least the shape of the Mark itself was definitively gone.

Dean didn’t seem to want anything to touch the wound, pushing Sam’s hand away when he came after it with a gauze pad. Sam, relieved to see any spark of life, didn’t insist on dressing it right away.

“Maybe it needs some air,” he suggested, offering more of the lidocaine cream, which Dean rejected. 

No words at all in 24 hours. Sam sighed. He did the New York crossword puzzle every week in pen and came in third in his class at Sanford Law; he wasn't stupid. He knew something was up. But maybe Dean needed more time to adjust - he didn't want to push him now, after everything.

“Try to go back to sleep,” he urged.

Dean didn't bother to argue. He crawled back into the bottom bunk without a word, pushing the blankets away and lying with his arms folded.

Sam chewed his lip, watching. Dean was dressed, as usual, in multiple layers, stiff jeans, and steel toed boots. “Are you sure you’re going to be comfortable like that?” asked Sam cautiously. He had never figured out exactly Dean’s beef with pajamas – probably fear of being attacked in the middle of the night – but he didn’t want to encourage it tonight.

Dean turned his back on him, tuning him out. 

"I just mean - we’re safe here,” said Sam. But even as he said it, he felt a twinge of doubt; they were never safe, and the times they relaxed for even just a second were usually right before the shit hit the fan again.

Dean grunted, flipping over onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. Sam sighed.

The original plan had been to return the boat right away and head back to the bunker. Who knew what Rowena and Crowley were getting up to - probably nothing good, especially if she had claimed the book as her rightful payment already.

But he was beginning to think maybe they should stay a little longer on the water. It was soothing on the boat, the smell of the salt and the gentle rocking of the waves. For a boy who had grown up in a car, it felt natural to live like this - it was just like the Impala, but with a kitchen and a bedroom and a bathroom.

He didn't think about what Dean would say if he compared the black-as-sin, Detroit-steel Baby to the cheerful green _Harborside_ , which had potted plants on the deck and a welcome mat that read ‘wipe your paws.’

"Just - try to get some sleep," Sam whispered. "Goodnight, Dean."

   
***

  
The next morning Sam woke up before his brother, which wasn’t normal. He had ended up bedding down on the floor rug in front of Dean’s bunk, where he could sleep with one eye on his brother. He was stiff when he sat up.

He checked on Dean first, who was curled up under the sheet Sam threw over him last night. Sam smiled; his brother’s nose was twitching. He looked relaxed. No fever - Sam checked - no sign of nightmares.

He decided to let Dean sleep in. His brother needed his rest, after so many weeks of drinking and pacing and bad dreams, never mind whatever that was last night.

Sam climbed up onto the deck and sat in a folding chair, enjoying the morning calm. They were anchored in a quiet inlet, hidden from sight. All through the night the tide had tugged at them gently, inviting them further out. Sam wanted to go.

He'd been ignoring Cas’ texts, asking when they were coming back, what the plan was. So far as Sam was concerned, there was no plan - there was no next. Maybe he and Dean would stay on the water forever, hugging the coast all the way down to Florida, on down to South America, hell, the very tip.

Eventually he got hungry, and snuck down to the kitchen to see what he could put together for breakfast. The ship's pantry was surprisingly well outfitted, with pretty much everything he needed to put together a meal. He wondered who kept it stocked.

Unfortunately, when he reached for a pot in the cupboard everything came pouring out, clattering to the floor and making a godawful racket.

"Give me a break," muttered Sam, staring at the cookie sheets, pie pans, and saucers scattered across kitchen.

Dean appeared almost immediately in the doorframe, sleep-rumpled and scowling. He bumped Sam with his good shoulder – _thanks for waking me up, jerk_ – and offered the furthest-ranging pan in the other hand.

“Uh, thanks,” said Sam, watching his brother move stiffly to the kitchen table. "Sorry about the noise. How’s your stomach?”

Dean shrugged, lowering himself into an empty wooden chair, possibly the same one that Sam had once been tied to.

“Here,” said Sam, holding out a cup. “Coffee. It’s hot.”

Dean made a face, although Sam made it just the way he liked it (black and scalding). “You don’t want something to warm up?” asked Sam, with a nagging sense of unease that he tried to press back.

Dean looked away.

“C’mon, Dean, seriously,” said Sam, pushing the cup into his brother’s hand. “You’re looking a little rough. You could probably use it.”

Dean glared at the cup balefully, but eventually conceded to a sip. Sam watched him while pretending not to watch him.

He hated that he knew, at a glance, the sight of his brother in pain; just from the slant of his shoulders, the slight tick of that artery under his jaw, the set of his lips. It was as familiar to Sam as the pattern of his freckles and scars. Dean held his whole arm stiffly, from his shoulder to his finger tips.

"You sore?" he asked casually, putting a pot of water on the stove to boil.

Dean’s eyes skated over him and then drifted off again.

"I was gonna make oatmeal," Sam tried again. "You hungry?" He poured oats into a measuring cup, not holding his breath for an answer.

“Hey, you know you can talk to me, right?” said Sam, quietly. “You're my brother, and I love you.” He made himself say it without flinching, without backing off. He was trying to get better about that. “Nothing you could tell me would change that.”

Dean, not looking up, started going through the med kit that was still open on the table.

“Alright. Just as long as you know I’m here for you,” said Sam, disappointed.

He set the timer for the oatmeal, then leaned against the stove to watch his brother root through the kit.

“What are you looking for? The lidocaine's on the bathroom sink, if that's what you want.”

Dean pulled out a cold pack, then popped the bag and began to shake it. However, instead of putting it against his forearm like Sam had expected, he laid it across his right shoulder instead.

“Don’t put it right against your skin,” Sam ordered. “That’s the one you always used to dislocate, right?”

Dean nodded, making a face.

“Let me see. Here?” Sam reached for the joint that Dean was holding wrong, familiar enough with his brother’s ordinary stance to notice the difference. Dean tensed at the touch – Sam gritted his teeth but said nothing, waiting for Dean to relax. When his shoulders finally dropped, Sam felt carefully around the muscle.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s swollen,” said Sam. “You could take some more Motrin. But don't use that ice, try heat instead. Did you bust it again recently?"

Dean shook his head, accepted the orange pills and swallowing them dry.

Sam ran a dishtowel under the sink tossed it in the microwave, watching his brother closely. "Did it just start this morning?"

Dean didn't reply, but his hands clenched the ice pack, which had started to drip.

The microwave beeped. Sam opened the door and let the dishcloth steam before gingerly picking it up. He brushed Dean's  cold pack away, laying the still-hot cloth over the skin. Dean exhaled shortly but didn’t react otherwise.

“That should loosen it up, if you strained something last night. We’ll keep an eye on it. Tell me if it gets worse, okay?”

Dean hummed. He wasn’t looking at Sam. His gaze had drifted over the wall and was fixed on the grey paint.

“We’ll keep an eye on it,” Sam repeated.

Dean only picked at his breakfast, and Sam frowned as he poured out the cold, mostly-untouched coffee. He was feeling more and more confident in his decision not to return to the bunker yet.

He insisted on a quiet day for both of them, no beer, maybe a nap later. Sam had expected to have to hide the alcohol, but surprisingly Dean didn’t even seem to want it.

Somehow that seemed to be the most alarming symptom of all. Dean had used booze to suppress his feelings since the age of about 13.

They spent most of the morning above deck, catching the fresh air. Sam steered the boat a little further down the coast, ending up in a sheltered spot that was far from any prying eyes. In the evening he queued up movies Dean wanted to see on his laptop, and they watched them together in the bedroom. He made sure to keep it light. _Porky’s Three_ featured. 

It felt oddly good, catering to his brother. Dean had been pushing him away for the better part of a year, but now here he was, warm and quiet and right under Sam’s nose.

Dean kept dozing off through the movies, and went to bed without complaint when Sam suggested he turn in early.

That was weird, too.

Sam was beginning to think it might be chemical. The Mark, as near as he could figure, played havoc with Dean’s serotonin levels – which might explain why he was more into sex and good times than indiscriminate slaughter, although he did his fair share of indiscriminate slaughter too. Now that the Mark was gone, the abused gland was shrinking and Dean was experiencing this as depression.

They would have to take it easy for a while, that was all. They deserved a vacation anyway, right? If this was what Dean needed, well then, Sam would give it to him.

Sam would give him anything he needed.

  
***

  
They outlasted the hex, in the end. Bobby did some quick research (and God, Sam missed Bobby, every day of his life; Bobby always had all the answers, knew how to make Dean listen, knew how to fix things that were broken).

The compulsion was to find and kill your true love, which was a lucky break since Sam's was already dead. Everyone else was just collateral damage. The hex wasn't fatal in and of itself; the officers had all just killed themselves after what they'd been made to do (three of them had killed their wives or girlfriends; one had killed a man that had turned out to be his secret lover).

With no true love available, it shouldn't be hard to keep Sam under lock and key until the spell broke on its own.

Sam didn't remember much of it. Just Dean's rough hands strangely gentle, stroking Sam's sweaty hair as Sam gnashed his teeth. Coaxing him to drink water, to stay calm, to try to sleep.

“ _Easy, Sammy. Easy. This is going to wear off soon, if you can just hold on. I'm here, you're okay, we're going to be fine."_

They didn’t talk about it when it was over.

Dean had destroyed the altar, burned the spell book, and planted evidence to get the whole coven arrested for running guns. They cleared out and moved on like nothing ever happened.

It was all a fairly tidy case, one of hundreds just like it.

Dean had ruffled his hair on the way out of town - "Toldja nobody messes with the Winchesters and gets away with it."

Sam had the distinct impression that Dean was consciously trying to hold back the ‘nobody hurts my my little brother’ bit.

That was back in the days when he would have protested.

  
***

  
The _Harborside_ tugged steadily down the bay. Even though Sam knew they’d end up turning north again to return the boat, he enjoyed nosing around the little river mouths of the Maryland shore.

“Hey Dean, you didn't finish your dinner. Do you want something else?" Sam stood holding the full plate, without much hope.

Unfortunately Dean's appetite had trailed off with his voice. Under the influence of the Mark he’d eaten more, relished food - but now he picked through Sam’s healthy cooking without a word.

Sam never imagined he'd wish for Dean to request a burger with double onions and fries.

Dean stood with his back to Sam, staring out at the restless water. The wind was crisp, but Dean was always hot now. He didn’t actually have a fever – Sam had checked, multiple times – he just always seemed to feel hot. He slept with the blankets pushed down to the foot of the bed, and if Sam tried to tuck him in while he was sleeping he kicked them off in the night. 

"You should have more than this. C'mon, I'll make you anything you want."

Dean shrugged and stood up, walking slowly around the deck. It made Sam obscurely nervous when he got too close to the edge. 

“C’mon, Dean, just a little,” Sam coaxed, walking over. “The internet said either unbuttered toast or banana is the easiest thing to eat. It's this or another smoothie.”

Sam had started making smoothies when his brother’s appetite had dropped to almost nothing. At least he would drink liquids, so Sam put in vitamin supplements and protein powder hoping he could keep Dean’s weight up.

Dean broke off a corner of the bread, nibbling at it daintily and raised an eyebrow at Sam; _Happy now?_

Strange how without a word, he still managed to communicate perfectly.

"Thanks," said Sam.

He told himself that it’s only now, when they felt safe, that this was all coming out. In a way it was a good thing, it meant his brother believed him when he said they were protected.

Sam figured their inability to cope had been masked for the past ten years by the near-constant state of emergency they’d been living in. Now that there were no worlds to save, everything Dean had been avoided was raining down on him all at once. It was enough that Sam would almost consider heading back out to hunt, except that he was honestly afraid Dean would find a way to get killed by something like a low-level wendigo and be done with it.

"How about we get below deck, out of the wind," said Sam, eying the clouds on the horizon. He’d been tracking the weather carefully, of course, since he wasn’t an experienced pilot. There was no small craft advisory at the moment, but the radio had predicted spells of heavy rain for the next 48 hours. Sam had already tried to engage Dean in ‘battening down the hatches,’ which his brother had done grimly and without enthusiasm.

"C'mon, Dean."

Dean followed him obediently down the stairs and Sam thought he'd give anything to hear himself called _Such a nervous little nellie, Sammy._

They started another movie, but a few hours later, while Sam was distracted trying to cook popcorn on the electric stove, Dean disappeared. He’d been puttering around with the dials and Sam didn't notice right away, but when he did he registered two things in the same instant - no big brother, and hammering rain outside.

Somehow, he already knew where to look.

He sprinted up the stairs and out into rain that was bucketing down. Dean was standing right on at the prow of the boat, past the guard rails. He was staring out at the dark, inscrutable water. The sight of him, standing motionless there against the heaving of the boat, his grey shirt black with the rain, filled Sam with nearly unbearable dread.

"DEAN!"

He hurried across the slippery boat, quickly soaked through himself. Dean's didn't turn even as Sam reached his side to pull him around. "Dean, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

His brother didn’t react, didn’t meet Sam’s eyes either. Dean's focus was still fixed, untroubled, on the horizon.

“Dean! Hey, I'm talking to you here! _Dean!_ " Sam was reassured when his brother’s eyes jumped back to his face. Although he was looking a little gaunt these days, the dark shadows under his eyes were gone. He slept well and often, now. “Come on. We’re going back inside. Now.”

He hustled his brother back down the stairs and into the warm kitchen, where the popcorn was burning on the stove. Sam turned it off and took a moment to lean over the counter, gathering himself.

“What the _hell_ was that, Dean? What the hell were you doing out there?”

Dean, sitting where Sam had put him, didn't respond. His gaze did that thing it had started doing lately – it skated over Sam’s face without settling, and then slowly drifted away to the far wall. Like he was looking straight through him, like he wasn't even there.

It was the worst feeling in the world.  
   
“Hey,” said Sam, stalking forward. “Don’t ignore me. Look at me, Dean.”

Dean got up, side-stepped around Sam and headed back to the bedroom. It seemed impossible that he managed to find ways to avoid Sam on such a small boat. Then again, he'd had enough practice, in their cramped lives, at carving out little spaces just for himself.  
   
But Sam wasn't letting him get away with it this time. He followed him down the narrow hall and into the back cabin, where Dean was lingering, seemingly without a plan.

“Dean. Hey! Don't shut me out,” said Sam. He was getting angry now, backing Dean up against the wall, trying to get him to make eye contact, angry when he wouldn't. The broad shoulder under his arm felt like it was poured from iron. “Jesus, you're drenched, you got any explanation for that?” He grabbed the soaking neck of his brother's shirt, tugging it forward hard enough that water was wrung out of it.

“Damnit Dean, would you just _listen to me_... ”

It wasn't until Dean bit his lip, swallowing a gasp of pain that Sam realized he had gripped his arm right above the Mark.

"God, I’m sorry, Dean,” said Sam, dropping his hold at once.

Dean jerked back instinctively, and Sam just managed to slide his hand behind Dean’s head before it hit the wall, hissing as he took the impact against his knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, leaving his hand where it was. Dean’s sides were heaving, and Sam could feel the wet spikes of hair against his palm. “Did I hurt it? Can I take a look?”

No response. Dean’s lips were white where he’d pressed them together. At least he didn’t pull away from Sam’s hands running over his shoulders, trying to pull off his soaking shirt sleeve to bare his forearm.

“Easy Dean, easy, I’m going to take a look, okay?” Sam tried to use his greater height to pin Dean up against the wall, still talking to him softly under his breath. “Let me see,” he coaxed, trying to smooth out his brother’s fist so he could fit the sleeve over and pull it off. “Dean. Stop it. Let me take a look. Shh, Dean. Settle, Jesus.”

Dean was trying to worm away, but eventually relented, relaxing his hands long enough for Sam to get off the shirt.

The blister had ruptured, the torn skin irritated and puffy. There was a clear white outline right through the middle, just about the size of Sam’s thumb. Sam felt the guilt settle heavy in his stomach. He found himself wrapping a reassuring hand around his brother’s wrist, below the injury, and squeezing. “I’m sorry, Dean. How bad does it hurt?”

Dean shrugged, calmed down now by Sam’s weight pinning him against the wall and not seeming much concerned by the inflamed wound. Maybe he liked to have his brother nearby.

It made Sam feel warm.  
   
“Why were you out there?” asked Sam quietly. "Huh?" It wasn’t like he expected an answer, but he had promised himself he would never stop talking to his brother, asking him questions, inviting him back into the world.

Dean let his head drop onto Sam’s shoulder.

“I think you should take a hot shower,” said Sam quietly. “Does that sound good?” Dean seemed indifferent to cold lately – he wasn’t shivering, even though he was soaked in icy rainwater – but Sam still wanted him warmer.

Dean didn’t protest, leaning heavier against Sam’s chest. Sam took that as answer enough and lifted a hand to rub his back.

“I'm sorry, Dean,” he whispered. “I know you're doing the best you can, I just - I just really want to be there for you. You've always been there for me, you know? God, when I was going first back up topside, when I didn't know what was real - you were the thing that held me together, you know? You were - you were my rock. And I just want to return the favor.”

Dean did not reply, or acknowledge the sentiment in any way, but Sam thought he felt some tension unwind from the muscles beneath his hands. He kept up the steady motion, smoothing his palms over Dean’s broad shoulders.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “You’ll see. It’ll be fine.”

They broke apart, and Sam ran his hands over his face. “Go on, get warmed up,” he said. “I’ll set out warm clothes for you.”

Dean didn’t argue, just nodded and shuffled towards the bathroom.

Sam went into the kitchen. He made one of his smoothies, using frozen fruit and yogurt. Then he took out the package that he had asked Cas to deliver via angel air.

Cas hadn't asked any questions, and Sam hadn't offered any. (Since the other man was being cagey about the status of Rowena and Crowley, Sam hadn't felt obligated to share his feelings).

He opened the brown paper envelope and pulled out a familiar orange pill bottle. He hesitated for a long time, but then he remembered Dean's intent gaze, focused on the waves.

He crushed up one of the white pills with the bottom of the orange juice glass. He knew it could be dangerous to crush pills rather than taking them as prescribed, but he had checked out the risk for this specific medication.

Keeping one ear on the bathroom, Sam used the flat of his palm to carefully sweep the dust into the smoothie and stirred it in.

Then he carried the glass into the bedroom.

Dean emerged from the shower, damp and muzzy with the heat. He was dressed, not in the soft clothes Sam had laid out for him, but in his outfit from the day before; he usual, jeans, boots, and at least two layers of shirt.

"Hey," said Sam. "I've got something here for you.”

Dean sat on the mattress, rolling his shoulders and blinking in the low light.

“Here you go. I need you to drink this,” said Sam.

Dean looked away, uninterested. Sam came to sit beside him, the glass in his hand. “Dean, c’mon,” he said. “Just try some.”

He had a sudden memory of himself, tied to the chair as Dean coaxed him into drinking warm water from a mason jar. Dean had barely left him alone for a second while Sam had moaned and sweated and screamed his way through the curse. He didn’t seem able to let Sam out of his sight while his brother was tied up and helpless.

He blinked the memory away.

“C’mon, Dean. I'm worried about you. Just a little, okay? You don’t have to finish all of it. Just have some. I'll let you go straight to sleep if you'll just take a couple sips for me, how about that. Please?”

Dean’s fingers curled around the glass wordlessly. Sam lifted their joint hands, guiding the rim of the cup to Dean’s lips, sliding his other hand behind his brother’s head to line them up just right. Dean didn’t react until the thick liquid flowed between his lips. Then he made an unhappy sound, seemingly about to pull away. Sam hated the way his shoulders hitched, like they were too tight, like they were choking him. Dean always looked like he was headed into a fight.

Sam wanted to rub his shoulders until they relaxed.

“Just a little more, big brother,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. “It’s okay, I just want you to drink a little. Can you do it for me, Dean? Hmm?”

Although he didn’t respond, Dean stopped protesting. He let Sam feed him tiny sips, his throat working irregularly to swallow. “Good job, Dean,” said Sam, stroking his hair. “Doing so good for me. Can you finish this whole cup? I think you’re going to feel a lot better if you do.”

Dean hummed.

“That's it,” Sam coaxed, “that's it, little sips. Good job. Good job, bro. That's not so bad, is it? You like it? Just a little more, Dean, for me. That's it.”

It took twenty minutes of patient coaxing before Sam set the cup down, empty. Dean licked his lips, his expression still vague, not making eye contact. “Thank you,” Sam whispered. “I'm real proud of you, Dean.  I know that was hard, but you did it, didn’t you?” He leaned forward to offer a gentle hug, and couldn’t resist kissing his brother’s scratchy cheek.

Dean accepted the kiss world wordlessly, the way he accepted everything these days, from Sam’s lousy cooking to the fact that they were still inexplicably sailing around the coast of Maryland in a houseboat that probably wasn't meant for open water.

Their time on the boat was changing both of them, Sam thought. The old Dean would have never allowed this, would have called Sam his _pansy-ass little sister_. The new Dean just relaxed.

"You ready for bed?" asked Sam. He felt and almost irresistible urge to fuss, to take care of his brother for as long as Dean would allow it. He didn’t usually get the chance.

Dean flopped back on the mattress, his face turned away from Sam.

“What if you got out of all those clothes, just for tonight? I bet you'd sleep better." No response, but Sam leaned forward anyway. “I’m going to take your boots off, at least,” he warned.

He untied the crusted laces first, aware of Dean watching him, then held his brother’s heel in his hands while he slid off the first shoe. Dean’s socks had holes in them. “Man, I could have lent you a better pair,” Sam whispered mournfully. He pulled off the sock entirely and felt a flash of – something – when he held the pale white foot, so vulnerable, in his hands.  
   
Dean’s toes curled, presumably displeased at the sudden draft. “Alright, alright,” said Sam, quickly repeating the process with the other foot, then covering them up with the blanket he’d folded up next to the bed.

“Sit up for me. You’re going to sleep better like this,” Sam promised, pulling the jacket down Dean's arms and folding it over a chair. “Let’s try to go for one more layer, okay?” He sat on the bed and started undoing the pearl buttons that marched down his brother’s chest, holding the grey flannel closed.

Underneath it Dean was wearing a faded white undershirt – that’s what Sam was looking for. In his worn tank top, Dean was soft-looking, susceptible. His eyes followed the flannel longingly as Sam folded it up and put it over the chair with his jacket and socks. 

"Better?"

Dean grunted, flipping over onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow Sam had fluffed for him.

Watching him, Sam was overcome by the desire to crawl into bed next to him and curl his body around his brother’s. He didn't know why he thought it would help - they didn't really do this - but Dean was hurting, and that made Sam want to help in whatever way he could.

He eased himself down on the mattress and laid down slowly.

He half expected Dean to jerk away when Sam got close, but he didn't even bother. Sam took shameless advantage, pressing in against him, relaxing at the warmth where they touched. Dean was always so warm now.

They used to nap like this as kids, before they knew to be ashamed of it. Hell, Sam fell asleep sucking on Dean’s collarbone most nights between the ages of three and seven.

“Come back, bro,” whispered Sam, burying his face in his brother's back. “I’m here, I’m waiting for you. You’re safe now. Come back.”

He felt his eyes filling up with tears, and hastily blinked them away, clearing his throat. This was no time to subject them to a chick-flick, just because Dean couldn't protest.

Remembering how he had relaxed when Sam had kissed his cheek, Sam gave himself permission to press his lips to the ball of Dean’s shoulder. He tuned out years of his father's macho bullshit and concentrated on how much he loved his brother, how much he wanted to help him feel better.

The cool darkness made him brave.

He pushed on, laying a soft row of kisses down Dean’s arm, to the tender inside of his elbow, down to the vivid black scar of the Mark. He laid his lips there gently, and Dean watched him with slitted eyes.

“It's ok, Dean,” he whispered. “It's okay to be sad, but I'm here, we're fine.”

He didn't even know if Dean was really listening. When he looked up, his face was downcast, expression far away.

“Hey,” said Sam, sliding up the bed so their eyes lined up. “Don’t do that. Stay with me.”

Before Sam knew exactly what was going to happen, he pressed his lips to his brother’s open mouth. Just a soft touch, just _hey, I'm here, it’s okay_. People did that, right? Was it so weird to crawl into your adult brother's bed and kiss him?

Well if everybody had a brother like Dean, it wouldn't be. Sam was sure of that.

Dean didn't gasp and throw himself backwards, or push Sam away and call him a freak. But he didn't exactly press into the touch, either. Sam kept the kiss gentle, soothing. It wasn't hungry. It wasn't asking for anything. Sam didn't push, hardly letting his tongue venture further than the line of his own teeth.

He needed to show him that he loved him, because Dean didn’t even seem to hear him anymore. Maybe Dean didn’t understand words, but he could understand this.

It was all Dean’s fault, he thought – Dean’s big, wet eyes, his soft mouth. What was Sam supposed to do, when his brother looked like that, like he needed something, anything, to make him feel better? Sam was only human, and he was trained by a lifetime of twisted devotion to his brother to do whatever needed to be done.

He broke away slowly, enjoying the wet noise, and laid his head down on the pillow next to Dean's. He kept their faces close, just breathing in each other's air, as they contemplated each other.

He still had an arm around Dean's, and he started stroking his hair slowly - an easy, steady rhythm. He wasn’t sure, but it felt like Dean inched in a little closer.

“I'm here, Dean, Sammy's here,” he whispered.

He felt the exact moment that Dean’s eyelashes fluttered into sleep.

Sam didn't get up. He laid there brooding over his brother, his quiet face and his relaxed, sleep-warm body. Dean was a good sleeper now. He slept like the dead. 

 _What did I just do?_   thought Sam.

This was the same boy who had found lunch money for Sam when they were kids (given up his own lunch, Sam realized now, gone hungry so that Sam could get fries and a coke with his sandwich). His _brother_ , and his best friend.

And now he was going through – whatever this was, and here was Sam, taking advantage of him.

Dean had never shown any indication that he thought about Sam that way. Sure he loved Sam - jealously, obsessively - but that didn't mean he wanted to be kissed like that.

It was wrong, Sam thought wretchedly.

Sam waited until Dean settled into real sleep. He got him tucked in under the sheets (he'd kick them off again soon, Sam was sure) and went back upstairs.

Then he pointed the _Harborside_ North and began chugging back up the coast.

 

  
 ***

  
It took three days to get back to Havre de Grace, now that they were really trying to make progress. Sam kept up with the pills, closely monitoring his brother's condition while trying to pretend that wasn't what he was doing. Not that Dean demanded a high level of subterfuge; indifferent, silent Dean, who went back and forth between the deck and the bedroom like a shadow. His appetite wasn't up, nor was he sleeping any less.

He steamed back into Tidewater Marina right around 6 p.m., planning to gas up the boat and start loading up the Impala. He needed to get his brother to a real doctor, one who didn't try to make out with him.

He stepped out onto the dock, disoriented by the sudden stability of the ground under his feet. He'd gotten used to the swaying of the boat, and now he felt punch-drunk and seasick.

He bent down to fumble with the mooring securing the boat, keeping one ear out for Dean, who was sleeping in the lower deck, dead to the world.

He barely turned his head fast enough to make out movement right behind him, before something heavy and hard came swinging down to connect with his head with a dull crunch.

Sam fell forward and everything went dark.

  
 ***

  
Sam awoke without knowing how much time has passed; it could have been minutes or hours. He was being dragged by shoulders, head drooping down, almost dragging against the rough wood of the dock.

“As soon as I saw that ‘67, I knew you boys were back in my neck of the woods,” said the man. Sam tried to get a sense of him - buzz cut, dog tags. “Figure it's finally time I get my own back eh?”

He moaned, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. _Dean!_  Dean was alone and unsuspecting, completely defenseless against whatever had attacked them.

“You should never have come back here. But I’ve been waiting.”

Sam tried to tug away but barely managed a twitch.

“I lost my commission because of you,” said the soldier, dropping Sam into a heap on a corner of the marina. “We were charged with dealing weapons out of the base. It's your fault I'm a dock worker instead of a Marine.” Fists grabbed the back of Sam's jacket and pulled him out over the murky water. “But you'll pay, you and that other one, what was it - Lieutenant Morrison?”

Strong hands gripped hold of his shoulders and plunged him down, into the brackish water, holding his head with one hand while the other pinned his wrists behind his back. The guy was built like a tank and strong as an ox, and Sam was too dazed from the blow to the head to put up a better fight.  
   
He gasped as the cold water rushed up over his head, choking him, filling his nose and open mouth immediately as he fought to scream, desperately trying to pull himself back up, but he was being held under. His body insisted on trying to cough, trying to push the water out, even though it was only making him suffocate faster. He swallowed another mouthful and felt a burning, throbbing agony building in his rib cage - he _couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't_ \- he was hauled up and shaken like a rat, just to drag it out a little longer, water streaming down his face, his neck from his sodden hair.

 _I’m sorry Dean_ , he thought, grasping for the words even as they skated out of his head. _I’m so, so sorry_ …

Then the implacable hands moved to force him down, down again...

_"Sammy!”_

Something barreled into the man who was holding him, and in the next second Sam’s hair was released and he was free. He collapsed in a puddle of water on the dock, the pool from his own frantic thrashing.

It was only later that he realized it was the first time he’d heard his brother speak in three weeks.

Sam rolled over, spitting and coughing up river water. He was aware of Dean facing down a man who must have outweighed him by 50 pounds of muscle, and he wanted to help - but he was _dying_ , unable to draw breath through lungs filled with water.

At least his last sight would be Dean, who was beating the crap out of the jarhead with lethal grace and barely contained fury.

Dean should have been slow, after weeks of barely wanting to get out of bed. He’d definitely lost muscle mass and body weight. But he went after the soldier without hesitation, like he’d never left the ring.

He had always been an efficient fighter, sleek and elegant; he easily dodged the blows, backing the bigger man into the wall of a supply shack. Then he went on the offensive, and Sam caught what breath he could at the sight.

Sam wanted to say something – encouragement, caution, he wasn’t sure – but he couldn’t speak, only watch as Dean started pounding with his fists, splitting skin.

He couldn’t help thinking how beautiful his brother was. He knew he should be concerned – Dean’s savagery was reminding him of the Mark, but if Sam wasn’t going to make it out of this marina, he wanted to at least hold on to the memory of his brother, alive and fighting again.

He gagged weekly and tried to keep consciousness as a brother delivered a knockout punch that sent his opponent to his knees, and then to the hard dock, out cold.

Sam should have been afraid his brother would lose control, but in the next minute Dean was ignoring the beaten body at his feet and sprinting to Sam’s side. Gentle hands were moving over Sam’s head, checking the swollen welt on his temple, then carefully patting over his ribs, his arms and legs, feeling for injuries. Sam had hit the dock hard and he was pretty sure he was bruised, but nothing worse.

He found himself laid out on his side and held in the recovery position, Dean’s hand pointing his jaw down and open, thumping his back as the water came pouring out. Sam moaned and spat and finally managed a wheezing inhale. He groaned and batted weakly at the hands that were squeezing him, forcing water up his esophagus.

“Good boy,” said Dean, the hand on his back turning from patting to soothing and rubbing. All of Sam's muscles were aching and sore. He had a pounding headache. And Dean had come for him. Dean was standing, talking, looking intently into Sam's face, the first real eye contact he made in what seemed like forever.

He lifted Sam's head by his jaw, peering into his face, brow creased in concern. It was such a relief to see an actual expression on his face again. Sam collapsed forwards, into his brother’s chest, breathing deep the scent of his sweat and fury and love.

“Shh, Sammy,” whispered Dean, fingers combing through Sam’s damp hair. His voice was gritty and rough from lack of use. “I gotcha, I gotcha. Shshsh.”

He slung Sam's arm over his shoulder and hauled him up with one arm around his back and one under his knees, grunting at the effort of standing up. Dean shouldn’t have been strong enough to lift his taller brother, but he didn’t hesitate.

Sam felt like he should say something, maybe make fun of his brother’s caveman streak, but he was still too weak to talk. Instead he turned his face into Dean’s chest, reveling in his brother’s warmth and caring. He closed his eyes as they headed back to the _Harborside_.

  
 ***

  
Sam woke up with the feeling he had forgotten something important.

He knew he needed to get up right away. But he couldn’t move a muscle. He was tightly swaddled in blankets. He blinked slowly, worming against the restrictive sheets, lifting his head as much as he could.

A warm, calloused hand immediately landed on his forehead, stopping the motion. Dean’s hand. It swept his hair back, out of his face, and Sam closed his eyes. He was bundled in blankets, lying in the lower bunk. Sam was warm, content. Dean’s hand on his forehead, holding him still, felt right.

“Dean,” murmured Sam; his first word, always.

Dean hushed him, wordless again, but soothing nonetheless. He was fussing over the wound at Sam’s temple, cleaning it with a gauze pad before carefully applying some kind of goop. His fingers were so gentle that it didn’t even sting.

Then the stroking resumed, over Sam’s cheek and jaw. Cupping over his eyes to urge them closed. Sam fell asleep again.

  
 ***

  
The next time he woke, Sam realized he was wearing nothing but a clean pair of boxers. His hair was dry, too. Dean must have stripped off his icy wet clothes and re-dressed him.

He flushed at the thought of Dean seeing him that way, naked. Dean cleaning him up.

Speaking of the devil - or the man who defeated him anyway – Dean was sitting in a chair in front of the bed, watching Sam. “Hey,” he murmured, when he saw that his brother was awake.  
   
Sam tried to speak and started to cough instead.

“Shh, Sammy. Take it easy.”

Dean hauled him up, then slipped into the bed behind him so Sam could rest against his chest, his head on Dean’s shoulder. “Okay, Sam?” asked Dean, wrapping both arms around him.

Sam nodded. He felt like a baby, cradled in his brother’s arms, but it felt good, too. He felt safe. Dean stroked his hair out of his face and brought a cup of water to his lips. Sam opened his mouth to accept a sip.

“I really missed you,” croaked Sam.

“Just try to rest, Sam. You've been out for a while. It’s been almost 48 hours.”

That long? Sam realized dazedly that he hadn’t given Dean his pill that morning, and it was really important that he take it _every day_.

“I took it. It's okay, just lay still.”

He didn’t remember speaking out loud, but apparently he must have. “You took it?”

“Not sure if they really helped or if I just started feeling better,” said Dean, finger-combing Sam's hair, gathering it up into a ponytail. It had grown out on the boat. “But I figure it’s worth trying.”

Sam heartily agreed. He closed his eyes, letting Dean lay a cool cloth on his aching forehead.

"You're still at risk for secondary drowning. Try to go back to sleep."

“M’cold,” said Sam, feeling like a little kid again, wanting his big brother to make everything better. Dean was already reaching for another blanket, wrapping it tighter around both of them.

Sam allowed himself to soak up the bone-deep comfort of Dean. He turned his face into his brother’s chest and fell asleep.

  
 ***

When Sam woke up next, Dean was slotted up against his back. His leg was pushed rather rudely between Sam’s knees, and his arm was tight around his brother’s waist. Sam couldn’t help grinning into his pillow; Dean was a sleep-spooner.

Of course he wanted to be the big spoon, even though he was several inches shorter.

He tried to shift, but Dean’s grip was too tight.

“Dean,” he said, trying to clear his ruined throat. Dean started to shush him but Sam persisted. “I have to say this. That night in bed, when I - I kissed you. I owe you an apology. I took advantage … I'm not even sure how it happened. I’m sorry.”

Dean finally allowed him to roll over, and Sam did, dreading what he would see in his brother's eyes.

"Sammy, you – " Dean sighed. "How much do you remember the case that brought us out here, the first time?"

"Bits and pieces," said Sam, blinking at the non sequitur.

"Do you even remember being under the hex?"

Sam shook his head. “Not really.”

“So you don’t remember what you were yelling for three hours straight.”

Yelling? Sam closed his eyes, trying to remember. He remembered being in the chair, fighting the ropes. Dean’s kind, steady presence. His hand on Sam’s hair.

 

_"Hush, Sammy, you don’t mean that. You’re just confused, that’s all.”_

_But he_ did _mean it._

_“Please, Dean, just come a little closer. Let me touch you. Please!”_

_The feeling was indescribable – he loved Dean so much, so much that he just wanted to tear him apart. Dean would be safe from everybody, every covetous eye, every monster’s claw, every put-down from their father … Sam would make sure he never suffered ever again, if he could just squeeze that terrible life out of him. It was life that was hurting him so bad, why couldn’t he see that?_

_“Dean, c’mon, please, if could just – ” _Even as his hands twisted against the ropes, shaping fists and claws, just wanting to reach for his brother and tear him apart.__

_Dean was what the spell wanted. What he_ _needed._

_“I love you, Dean!”_

_He was screaming it, over and over again – I love you, I love you, I love you!_  

 

Sam gasped, breathing hard. "I - how could I forget that?" he asked, dazed. The hex made you attack your true love; familial love shouldn’t count.

And that was _Dean_.

Dean - Dean had known, _all this time_ _._ Even after Sam forgot, Dean had known. Kept it secret from Sam, to protect him … or because he didn’t feel the same way.

He looked down, but Dean cupped his cheek and raised his face up. He had a half-smile tugging on one side of his mouth, but he stroked his thumb over Sam's lips. “Sammy,” he whispered. “Can you really not know it's you, it's always only been you for me?”

Sam's eyes filled up with tears, and he tried to hastily blink them away before Dean noticed.

"Hey," said Dean, stroking his cheek. “C’mere.”

He leaned forward and Sam fell into the comfort of his brother's lips, eagerly opening, allowing Dean's tongue immediate access, only wanting more of him. He let Dean tumble them back on the unmade bed, smiling at his brother’s overprotective hands behind his head, keeping him from another knock.

Then they were wrestling and tussling together like two puppies, each pretending to care about pinning the other, both actually just delighting in the press of warm, healthy, living skin. Sam just wanted to be as close to his brother as possible – until they merged into one good person, with the better halves of both of them.

They kissed and rubbed together innocently, like this was all they would ever want. Sam got to enjoy the sight of Dean’s animated face, eyes bright with love and fixed on Sam, looking young and happy. Sam could only assume his own expression was equally alight.

Someday Sam wanted Dean to fuck him – his cock twitched at the thought of himself, spread out and taken that way – wanted to fuck Dean too, wanted them to have each other. He’d never wanted something like that before, but now that he had Dean’s hands on him, he just wanted them everywhere.

But there would be no tops or bottoms – not tonight. Sam was too desperate to care about that now, and the little bed wasn’t going to allow anything fancy anyway. They ended up on their sides, Sam’s leg slung over Dean’s thigh, Dean’s hand planted possessively on Sam's backside. Sam was wearing nothing but the boxers Dean had put him in, while Dean was fully dressed. Their cocks rubbed together through layers of fabric, and that felt perfect.

He ground down against the hardness he could feel answering his own, and Dean just tugged him in closer. “Yeah, Sammy, so good baby, just like that,” Dean whispered, rocking them together – and just the sound of his voice made Sam gasp, getting harder.

“Dean,” he whined, pulling on his brother’s jeans. They were so close now, pressed tight all along the line of their bodies, and Dean was rubbing up against him _just right_ –

He hid his face in the safe, dark curve of Dean’s throat and heard his moan vibrate through their skin, and that was all it took: he came ferociously, making a huge mess.

A few quick pulls was all it took for Dean to join him.

Sam half-expected Dean to push him away now that the moment was over, but Dean was already tucking his body around Sam’s, safe and warm. Their lips met, slow and gentle.

“I love you, Sammy,” said Dean. “I love you, I love you, _I love you_ …”

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly found that he was crying, great ugly sobs coming broken and harsh from his throat. Dean tugged him in tighter, rubbing his back. “I told you you’d cry your way through sex,” he rumbled, and Sam laughed wetly.

Eventually ditched their soiled clothes and curled around each other, naked like children (Dean resumed his "big spoon" duties, effective immediately). Sam dozed in and out, but each time he woke, he could tell that Dean was awake behind him.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

Lips touched his shoulder. “Nothing, Sammy. Go back to sleep.”

Hours later, Sam opened his eyes in the blue dawn. For a second he lay there in silence, trying to figure out why he was up. The boat was rocking gently, and it was very early - probably around 5 a.m.

He almost started to fall back asleep, but then he heard it again - barely suppressed, a hitched breath, then another. Sam had never heard the sound before, but somehow he knew instinctively what it was - Dean was crying, holding his breath.

“Dean?” Sam didn’t hesitate, rolling over to envelop his brother as best he could. Dean was - of course - lying on top of the blankets, curled up on his side with his face to the wall. Sam, clumsy and frantic, crowded in around him, trying to cover him with his body. "What is it, what happened?”

“Nothing,” said Dean, shuddering.

He’d stopped crying, which both relieved Sam - his brother shouldn't make those noises, it was wrong - and made him feel guilty for spoiling the first release his brother might have had.

“Please tell me,” he whispered. “If something is hurting you, I want to know.”

Dean cleared his throat and Sam didn’t think he was going to answer. “Just – thinking, that’s all.”

“About what?”

Dean sighed. “You know, when your wall was busted, I was going to drive us off a cliff in the Impala.”

“… What?”

“Oh yeah. I’d get some good drugs in you, carry you out to the car, buckle you into the passenger seat. You’d be sleeping like you used to, remember? Right where I could reach out and touch you. That’s how we were going to go. I’d be holding your hand, find a high bridge or something. We’d probably wake up in the same damn car again anyway, like we never left.”

They were ugly words, but part of Sam was still glad just to hear Dean talk. He knew making a big deal out of it would only make him stop, so he made an encouraging noise instead.

“Or … you know that first time the truck hit us in the Impala? I keep thinking … I should have just died quicker. That would have fixed everything. No apocalypse, no demon blood, no Mark. I’d just be watching fireworks in a field for the rest of eternity.”

Sam curled himself tighter around his brother, as if he could literally shield him from his painful thoughts. His own eyes were watering now, filled with tears that he refused to let fall.

“I wish I could have a do over, just roll back the clock on this whole thing. I would go with Tessa so fast her head would spin.”

“Stop it,” said Sam. “Dean, please, just stop.” He leaned over and kissed him, as much to stop the words as anything else. “We’re here, together,” he promised quietly. “We made it. We’re fine. We’re here together, okay?”

Dean subsided, chewing on his lip.

“I had a dream that I was in the bunker making a meal. Big ole plate of burgers, fries, the works. And the big table in the war room was made up of all these place settings, with a candle at each one. Caleb and Pastor Jim. Dad.” He didn’t flinch when he said it. “You, the first time. Or the second.”

“That didn’t count,” said Sam, although he knew it was pointless to argue.

“Ellen and Jo. Ash. Pam. Frank.”

“I don’t need you to tell me the list,” said Sam. “I know the list.” And he had his own names he could add to it, of women he had loved and lost. _Jess. Madison. Sarah_.

“Bobby,” Dean continued, as if he didn’t hear. His eyes were wet now. “Kevin.”

“Stop,” said Sam. “Don’t, Dean.”

“Charlie,” whispered Dean.

His own litany, of all the people he hadn’t saved. Sam wondered how long he had hoarded it up, repeating it to himself over and over again.

It was terrible, thought Sam, but maybe it all needed to come out, like pus welling up out of a boil. At least Dean was finally here, warm and real and Sam's arms, finally letting him see his wounds so that Sam could try at least to tend to them.

“All the people we loved that I've killed,” said Dean. His voice broke, not used to speaking so much.

Sam squeezed his brother tighter, tears filling his own eyes, not trusting his voice as he tried and possibly to say something that would fix his brother. “Dean - we've always been handed a plate of steaming shit, man. There were no good choices. Either way people got hurt, people died. But you always did the best you could, man … and it wasn’t your fault.”

It was something Sam had to repeat to himself often enough over the years (every day, every night, every minute - _ópere et omissióne, for what I have done and for what I have failed to do, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_ ).

“I know it sucks, man. But I love you. _I love you, Dean._ ”

Dean cupped Sam's face in his hands, stroking the hair behind his ears with his thumbs. “I’m sorry, Sammy. I don’t know why I couldn’t talk. I wasn't trying to shut you out, I promise. I just - I don't know, everything went grey for a moment there.”

“And now,” said Sam, leaning his cheek into his brother's hand.

“Starting to remember colors,” Dean promised.

“Just – tell me these things, even when they’re hard for me to hear,” said Sam. “I don’t want to ever have to see you like that again, okay? This hurts but – that hurt more.”

Dean nodded, and they laid down together again, touching everyplace they could reach.

“Do we have to go back out there?” Dean asked, sounding about as enthusiastic as Sam felt at the thought of finding more evil to fight. “I've got to be honest, I don't know how much more of this I've got in me.”

Just the thought of Dean hurting anymore made Sam want to throw up. It seemed crazy, how much he needed his brother now. But he was getting that feeling it might be mutual.

“Maybe it's time to see what else we could be good for,” suggested Sam.

 

  
 ***

  
“Yeah, Cas, we’re out for a while,” said Sam, leaning over the dock railing watching the _Harborside_ bob in her slip.

On his laptop, he was surveying the latest real estate listings.

“No, I'm not saying we're quitting hunting for good - I don't know what's going to happen. But near term, we're done. We're going to find a place by the water, try to get our heads together."

He couldn't stop smiling, he realized. It was making his cheeks hurt.

"Both of you?" inquired Cas, his voice tinny through the phone.

"Yes, both of us, together. Dean promised, when this thing with the Mark was over, he’d take a long break. I gotta be honest with you, I’m hoping I can stretch it out to infinite.”

“I appreciate the necessity of honesty,” Cas said gravely. He’d gotten weirder, now that he’d got his grace back. Sam guessed being a celestial photon would do that to you.

Dean came up behind him, glancing around to make sure no one was watching before sliding his hand over Sam's hip, then around his waist. Sam smiled as he nudged their faces together to plant a soft kiss on Sam's cheek.

He was still quieter than usual, but that morning he had instructed Sam to shut his hole about the body odor on the sheets they were stripping.

He was getting better.

“Perhaps I could come and visit sometimes,” suggested Cas, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “I would - enjoy that.”

“Hell, we would love to have you,” said Sam. He changed the search settings on realtor.com to ‘two bedrooms, two bath.’

“Bring pie,” said Dean.

  
**FIN**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
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